Fear Finds Lady Sybil
by PrydainViolet
Summary: ...and so does hope, at an unlikely time and from an unexpected source.
1. Prologue: Fear and Hope

A/N: I do not own or profit from Downton Abbey, I just enjoy it!

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Sybil was a little girl, and Mary had told her and Edith a ghost story. It was a masterful tale of hidden corpses and weeping spirits and it had thrilled Sybil from her toes to her fingertips. When Mary concluded the tale with a dramatic flourish and they finished their hushed shrieking and giggling, Sybil looked around and thought that Downton Abbey was a little bigger and much darker than usual. Edith sniffled a little and said she wished she could sleep in bed with Mamma. Sybil thought that sounded like a really good idea, but before she could agree out loud Mary gave Edith such a look of disdain that Sybil knew if was to remain friends with her oldest sister she'd better be brave.

She was huddled in her blankets pondering the likelihood of there being a corpse in her armoire when she was overcome by the suspicion that there was something lurking under the bed; something frightfully dark and growling with long claws and sharp teeth. She started to pull the blankets over her head, but then wondered how long she would have to hide. The monster might stay under her bed for hours or even years and she didn't want to sleep with the blankets over her head _forever_. Sybil drew a deep breath and threw back the covers and stood up on her bed. "I am not afraid of you," she spoke in a voice that was unusually low and solemn for a child, "Go away!" The room was silent. She dropped to her stomach and pushed herself over the side of the mattress, feet waving in the air for balance as she hung upside down to peer under the bed. There was nothing there. Sybil jostled her way back into bed, wrapped herself in blankets, and fell into a deep sleep. After that night Fear left Sybil alone for years. Her world was perfectly safe, filled with sunny days and peaceful nights.

...

Sybil was a young lady, and Branson had been shoved away from her. People were growing violent and the situation was getting out of hand; she turned to look for a way out and met Branson's eyes as he struggled towards her against the crowd. Sybil saw unbridled panic on his face, and suddenly she was filled with alarm. She wanted to call out to him and tell him that he was right - she shouldn't have come here and she was sorry she had brought them into such a dangerous place and they should leave immediately. But then Cousin Matthew was shouting and fighting and she didn't even have time to be properly shocked about _that_ before something threw her sideways and there was only the confused image of a table rushing up to meet her and a distant sound of shattering glass before she was plunged into darkness.

When she came to it was first to the pain in her head that made everything else foggy, and then to the slightly blurred but recognizable face of Matthew, his clear blue eyes that could never hide anything full of worry. She swam in and out of consciousness, Matthew's eyes always staring back at her when she surfaced, until they weren't blue eyes but brown and Sybil had to concentrate through the murk to bring her sister's face into focus. That was when she saw it for the first time in years, Fear. It was deep in Mary's eyes, pulling at the corners of her mouth and tugging at her voice. Mary carried it home, it gripped her as she gripped her sister's hand to reassure herself more than Sybil who could barely stay awake in the back seat. No one else in the car could have known, but Fear sat in the front seat as well, twining around their chauffer's heart and squeezing until his breath was shallow. Fear followed them into Downton Abbey and up to Lady Sybil's room where it wrenched angry words from her father's mouth and pressed silent tears from her mother's eyes when they saw their daughter stained with blood.

It lurked in the shadows until she was alone, and then Fear finally came to Sybil in the night. In the dark it crept upon her and she relived the violent press of bodies, the angry shouts ringing in her ears, the moment she realized she was falling with no time to shield herself; these memories ran through her mind over and over until the thought _what if_ fell into her head. _What if Branson hadn't come back for her, what if Cousin Matthew hadn't been there, what if she had been alone in that mass of angry, shouting violent people? What if she had been unconscious on the ground and no one came for her and she was trampled under boots and her body dragged through the mud -_ Sybil realized she was shaking and ill. She practically jumped out of bed and gathered her hair in one hand as she ran to the bathroom. Thankfully, it was easy to blame her illness on the injury to her head. Lady Sybil couldn't bear to admit that she had been scared sick.

Sybil thought that Fear would leave her alone after that night, but it stayed in her room, bringing nightmares in which she was crushed and trampled and Branson's face was full of panic. She was rescued by London, for the city filled her with excitement and new sights and sounds and frocks until she was too full to feel anything but happiness. When they returned home she felt that Fear had left for good because her days were full of sunlight and her nights filled with peaceful sleep just as they used to be. But Fear was only waiting for the day when the words _Lady Cora_ and _doctor_ and _accident_ were being shouted urgently through Downton Abbey. Then it swept through the house like a storm and Sybil was consumed with a terror that left her feeling stupid and helpless. But she had learned when she was a little girl that she had to be brave, and she loved her mother so much that she wanted to be strong, and just wanting it made her so. Lady Sybil kept Fear at bay, diminished its power with her strength and grace, and everyone at Downton Abbey could see what a fine woman she would become.

...

_War_

The word was ringing in her ears and the ground was spinning below her feet and she thought it was too soon, too soon to be feeling this overwhelming horror. She felt oddly weightless, as if gravity had released her from its tether and she might just drift slowly off the ground and into the open sky. And suddenly she wanted very much to run to her mother, to crawl into her lap and feel her soft arms holding her fast. For a moment she resisted, but the instinct was too strong and it was all she could do to keep her pace slow as she turned and began to walk towards Lady Cora, if only to be near her. "Chin up," she reminded herself when she realized she was watching her shoes and their measured steps across the grass. She jerked her chin upwards and her eyes fell on Branson. She stared at him and tried to remember if she had ever apologized for that terrible day, or even thanked him for staying by her side. Maybe he felt her gaze because he turned and met her eyes. Sybil expected to see the panic on his face that had haunted her dreams, and it was there, but there was also something else that she did not expect. She couldn't even tell what it was, but it wasn't fright. She had seen it before, just a few minutes ago when they had been with Gwen. _Could it really have been just a few minutes ago when they were all so content? The world had changed so much since then._ They were grinning madly at Gwen's happiness, basking in her glow of joy when Sybil noticed that her fingers were wrapped in Branson's. She looked down in surprise at their clasped hands and then up at his face and he was smiling at her and his eyes were full of…hope. Now their country was at war and he might die in a far away land and who could tell what would become of any of them and he still looked at her with eyes full of hope. Sybil wasn't sure what exactly this meant, but it felt terribly important and something inside her shifted. Gravity resumed its pull and the earth felt solid and still beneath her feet again. She understood that she would never stop being afraid for years, maybe for the rest of her life, but now she was sure that Fear would not live inside her alone; it had been joined by Hope, and that made all the difference in the world.

Lady Sybil was a woman, and Tom Branson had fallen in love with her.


	2. Darkness and Light

Sybil sleeps fitfully. Every noise in the night jolts her into consciousness; she wakes sucking in air with a gasp, heart racing as if she has been running, nightgown clinging to the sweat dampening her back. Sometimes she remembers right away the reason for the terror, but sometimes she can't recall and her confused mind searches for a few moments,_ I was injured at the count…no, Mother and the baby…no_, and then she remembers; _war_. She doesn't know how many times she jerks uncomfortably awake before she gives up and decides not to go back to sleep. She sits in bed for a while, but the darkness seems to press in on her and in the quiet there is nothing to distract her from the fearful, terrible worries invading her mind. She gets up and paces around the room, scrubs her face, brushes her hair, opens and closes her biscuit jar disinterestedly. Finally she wraps herself in a dressing gown and creeps into the hall, trying to remember the last time she and her sisters snuck around Downton in the dark. It must have been a very long time ago.

She paces quietly upstairs for a while and then walks as silently as she can down the great staircase holding one hand slightly raised in front of her in the dark. She thinks she hears hushed voices and footsteps rising from the staircase to the kitchen and realizes that she is not the only restless soul awake in the house this night. A light moves across the floor and she watches it enter the library. She follows its path thinking it must be her father coming to seek solace and advice in his beloved books, but as she approaches she sees that it is not her Papa. It's Branson, dressed in his shirt and vest (and she wonders if she has ever seen him without his jacket before) looking like he hasn't even tried to sleep. He doesn't notice her presence, so she clears her throat and speaks quietly.

"Hello, Branson," he starts in surprise at her voice and turns around, eyes widening when she steps into the pool of light from his lamp.

"M'lady! Did I," he looks confused for a moment, "wake you?"

"Goodness, no. I was already downstairs when I saw the light. I thought it might be Papa."

"I was just returning some of his books. I couldn't sleep and saw Mrs. Hughes sitting up in the kitchen. She said it would be alright if I was quiet and thought I might as well do it now before," his voice trails off into silence. She watches him writing in the ledger and suddenly feels heavy with sadness.

"You're going to leave, aren't you," it isn't really a question.

"Yes, m'lady."

"It doesn't seem right."

"No, m'lady."

"Politics."

"Politics," and there is a wry laugh in the word. She remembers something from the garden party, and before she can stop herself the words are coming out in a rush.

"It seems ages ago now, but I wonder if I ever apologized for that day at the count. You were quite right, Branson, to want to leave. I'm afraid I was rather naïve and reckless, I just thought...I didn't want to miss something important and exciting, but I was wrong to put us and your job in danger. It was selfish, and I do hope you forgive me." He doesn't reply at first, only stares at her and she clasps her hands behind her back to keep from fidgeting under his gaze. When he finally does speak in his lilting accent, she finds it hard to meet his eyes.

"I know what it is to wish for something different, and to want to be part of something important. That's nothing to apologize for. But I…I never want to see you hurt. You gave me quite a fright." His words are light, but his face is carved into a mask of intensity that suggests the depth of his fright was more than Sybil had even guessed, and the thought scares her.

"Well, I'm sorry I gave you a fright," she has to work hard to force the words past her throat and her voice sounds jarring and mangled to her own ears. She tries to smile, but the effort dies when he raises his hand between them and reaches towards her face. For a brief moment she considers turning on her heels and bolting from the room, but stays rooted to the spot as his fingers lightly brush against the temple of her brow where a faint scar marks her complexion. Anna always arranges her hair to conceal it, and she sometimes forgets that it's there at all, but Branson remembers exactly where it is. His hand curls into a soft fist at her cheek and his thumb traces the too-white lines and patches against her skin. Sybil closes her eyes and thinks she might just shatter into a thousand tiny pieces at his touch, Branson closes his and remembers that night when he returned to the kitchen after watching Matthew lead Sybil into Downton.

He had barely opened the door when Gwen rushed towards him, half-crying as she asked what had happened and if Lady Sybil was hurt badly. He doesn't remember answering her, just walking over to Mr. Bates and asking numbly if he knew how to get the blood stains out of his jacket sleeve. Somehow Mr. Bates had made everything calm and sensible, shushed Gwen's fretting and took him in hand, showed him how to clean the jacket and placed a hand on his shoulder with a strength that made him miss his father. He remembers scrubbing and scrubbing and watching the red blood seep from the fabric into the water that dripped down his hands. "Her blood," he thought, and his mind was a storm of images and thoughts and desires.

He knows just touching her is dangerous, he would certainly lose his job if Mrs. Hughes saw or the family knew, but losing his job is now the least of his worries. He is beginning to wonder if it was ever really important. Sybil can feel blood rushing to her head and steps away from Branson's hand before he can feel the sudden warmth in her cheeks. His arm drops quickly to his side and he begins to stammer out an apology. He looks crestfallen and maybe even a little hurt and suddenly she has to fight the inexplicable urge to circle her arms around his middle and pull herself tight against his chest. If she could only hold him, just for a moment, to know the weight of him in her arms, to feel that he is real and solid before he leaves her with only images drawn from memory. Her eyes grow damp and the corners of her mouth begin to pull and quiver seemingly of their own accord. The horrible realization that she is about to cry in front of Branson eclipses every other reasonable thought. She presses her hand against her mouth as if she can force tears back inside her and turns away from him feeling ashamed and little. For a few moments he is so quiet she thinks he must have left, but then she hears his voice, cautious and uncertain.

"I am sorry, m'lady, it was too forward of me."

"No, it's not that," she manages to whisper.

"Then what is it," he asks, and she finds that she can't bring herself to speak the words out loud, and can only draw a shuddering breath.

"I am afraid too, my lady," she hears him say. And then, whispered like a precious secret, "Sybil."

She turns back to face him and his eyes are blue and shining like a clear sky, like freedom, like hope. This time it is she who reaches for his hand and weaves her fingers with his. They stand together, quiet and still, until she finds the strength to speak again.

"You will try to be careful and not do anything terribly brave."

"I must try and do my duty."

"Branson, I know you are more than a chauffeur, but do try and come back to Downton. Please."

"If you ask, I will try to return to you."

She has a mad fancy to pull a ribbon out of her hair and tie it around his arm and almost giggles at the thought of it. Instead she smiles, raises their clasped hands and seals her lips against his fingers.

"I am asking." A voice in the back of her mind sounds an alarm, because she is the daughter of an Earl and her parents would be furious and no one would ever allow it and she'll be ostracized and more than likely penniless and maybe even ruined and _what if he doesn't come back_…

He clasps her hand in both his own and presses it to his lips. Softly, he kisses her fingers, her palm, the inside of her wrist, and before she's at all prepared he leans forward and brushes his lips against hers. It is over in an instant but for hours, days, weeks, months she can feel his kiss burning on her mouth like a fire branded promise.


	3. Nightmares and Dreams

A/N: Thank you so much to those of you reading and reviewing. This piece initially started as a one-shot until I woke up one morning with chapter 2 in my head. Now I'm finding that I have even more to write, and consequently I expect the contents of the chapters will not remain strictly chronological. I will try to reference the period of time that each chapter or section is set within the story, but if I get feedback that the temporal leaps are too confusing I will start labeling each section. Thanks again! -PV

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When Sybil was a little girl she would jump down from her chair as her father walked in for breakfast. She stood by the table, hands clasped behind her back, heels raised off the floor so she swayed on her toes as she watched him fill his plate. Lord Grantham would greet his two oldest daughters and chat with Carson about the upcoming day, all the while watching his youngest girl discreetly from the corner of his eye. Sometimes he would deliberately linger with Carson until Sybil would pout her little lips and bounce up and down in pained impatience until both earl and butler struggled to hide their grins. When he finally sat she would approach the arm of his chair and look up at him expectantly. Lord Grantham would feign a put upon sigh and lift her onto his knee.

"Well, my little Sybil, of what did you dream last night?" She would sit calm and still, reciting her dreams as her father listened and nodded solemnly. They were dreams inspired by the familiarities of Downton Abbey, pictures of people wearing interesting clothes had seen in books, or exciting places her mother told her about in America. One morning as Sybil was describing her dream about Mary's horse galloping through the woods, Lord Grantham looked down into her clear eyes gray eyes and realized that he had never heard her speak of a nightmare. The thought pained him unexpectedly, and he drew her close to kiss the top of her head.

"Don't worry, Papa," she continued softly, "I dreamed that Mary's horse came home again."

...

Sybil passes a hand over her bleary eyes and assures herself that it was not unusual for Branson to appear in her dream; after all she had fallen asleep with the pamphlets he had given her resting on the bedside table, having been read over and over again by lamplight the night before. He had appeared only for a moment, a flash of blue eyes and gleaming smile, but as she sits up in bed squinting against the morning light Sybil feels unaccountably peculiar over the notion that she summoned his image in her sleep. She rubs at her eyes again and looks down at the pamphlets, then without thinking she opens the top drawer of the bedside table, sweeps the papers inside, and closes it on one swift motion. This makes her feel better, and by the time she is dressed for breakfast Sybil has forgotten she dreamed of him at all.

.

Branson splashes cold water across his face and assures himself it is not unusual that he dreamed of Lady Sybil. She is a beautiful girl, and why shouldn't he dream of a pretty face? He can't even remember what the dream was about, just that she was there, gray eyes peering up at him from under the brim of her hat. The image bothers him and he can't help but dwell on it until the reason dawns on him; it wasn't only a dream, it was a memory. Yesterday when they arrived at Downton he had opened the door and waited for a moment as she folded the pamphlets and tucked them into her pocket. She stepped down out of the car and looked up at him to say "Thank you, Branson," but when she met his eyes it was not a polite acknowledgement of his presence, she saw him, maybe even for the first time. She seemed surprised and curious and a little wary. He liked seeing that look on her face. It haunts him the rest of the day, and as he drifts off to sleep that night Branson hopes he will dream of Lady Sybil again.

...

When she dreams of him, he is always in uniform. Crisp lines and gleaming buttons. She dreams of his arm circling her shoulders, of their hands clasped together, sometimes she dreams of his lips brushing against her mouth and when she wakes the lonely ache inside her is so strong she only wants to return to sleep and dream herself beside him again. At first the dreams are pleasant, she welcomes them because they make him feel less distant and the war less real. Weeks go by, and then months and the dreams change. She starts to dream of the count again, of Branson grasping her shoulder and holding her against his chest as bodies press against them, but in these dreams they are both knocked down and he is dragged away through the dirt as booted feet pin her to the ground. Eventually she sees him wearing a different uniform and it is stained with grime and blood. Before long she begins to dream of battle, of open wounds and death and pain. Each morning she wakes feeling drained of all energy, and all through the day the images cling to her mind like cobwebs. One night she dreams she falls into a muddy ditch, and at the bottom she finds Branson's body. He is torn and cold, his blue eyes are empty and she screams and tries to climb out but the mud gives way under her hands and the more she struggles the faster she slides back down. She wakes with a strangled cry tearing out of her throat. It is still the middle of the night but she dresses herself and goes to work, keeping busy all day and well into the next night until Mary insists that she goes to bed before she makes herself truly ill. Before she falls asleep in her silent room, Sybil wonders if the dreams will drive her mad.

.

When he dreams of her, everything is green and blue. He dreams them into beautiful places; traveling a familiar country road, lingering in the great shadow of Downton Abbey cool against the heat of a summer day, sometimes he even dreams her into Ireland where they stand at shore lines or sit in mist shrouded hills. She takes his hand and speaks to him in her voice low and soft like smoke. She lets down her long dark hair and allows him to run his hand through its tresses, and when he pulls her body against his she is soft and sweet. He dreams of her every night, and the dreams are calm and lovely. When he wakes to a world of heat and noise and stink, Branson wonders if they are the only thing keeping him sane.


	4. Anger and Love

Mary did not particularly want another sister. She was not alone; she had heard Grandfather specifically request a grandson, but Mamma had put a hand to her rounded stomach and said "I am sure it is another girl." Grandfather scowled and Granny sighed, but Mamma did not look very upset. Just a little worried. Mary was worried too, because as far as she was concerned she already had one sister, and it was one too many. Still, the day came when the doctor was sent for and Mary and Edith were ushered downstairs out of the way as maids rushed back and forth and up and down. Finally, after what felt like days, Papa came to fetch them. He picked up Edith with one arm and held out his other hand to Mary.

"Come and meet your new sister," he said, and Mary reluctantly put her hand in his and let him lead her upstairs to Mother's room. As they entered, the baby was crying in Mamma's arms. Mary scowled disapprovingly, and watched as Mamma rocked the baby and spoke to her gently.

"There, there my little darling, hush," and to Mary's complete amazement, the baby hushed. Mary was intrigued by this odd behavior, and began to think that anything that made Mamma look so happy could not be all that bad. Still, further examination was needed before judgment was passed.

"Can I hold her, Mamma?"

"Yes, Mary. Come up here with me." Papa lifted her onto the bed and she sat as close as she could to her mother. "Now, be very gentle, she is brand new," Mamma said as she placed the baby in Mary's lap. She looked down at the little pink face and could not resist reaching out to touch her cheek. As soon as she did, something strong and inescapable pulled at her heart and Mary knew with certainty that she wanted this sister.

"Well, Mary, shall we keep her?" She knew her father was teasing, but Mary was completely serious when she replied.

"Yes, we shall keep her, Papa. I love her very much."

Mary did not see much of her mother or the new baby for a few days. She knew she was not supposed to, but she liked to sneak into her mother's room while she and the baby were resting. Mary would stare into the basinet and wonder about her new sister; wonder what she would look like when she got older, wonder what she would want to talk about, and sometimes Mary would wonder why she liked her so much better than she ever liked Edith. One morning Mary was making her way downstairs to the kitchen intent on convincing the cook to let her steal some strawberries when she heard the unmistakable voice of Carson talking to one of the housemaids.

"Three daughters! My word, in a few years we'll be beating the suitors away with a stick."

"She is a lovely little babe. No doubt she'll be a beauty like her mother."

"I daresay she's not as pretty as Lady Mary was when she was born, but she appears to be a very fine Grantham, indeed."

"Oh, go on. Have ye seen her open those eyes? There's an old soul, and no mistake."

Forgetting the strawberries, Mary ran upstairs and quietly opened the door to her mother's room. When she saw Mamma was still asleep, she walked over and leaned into the basinet to peer curiously into her sister's eyes.

"Is that what you are? An old soul," she whispered. The baby grabbed a tiny fistful of Mary's hair that dangled down in front of her, and promptly put it in her mouth. "Hmm," continued Mary dubiously as she tugged her hair out of the baby's grasp, "Either way, Carson says we'll be beating our suitors away with sticks. I'm not sure what that means, but it sounds rather dangerous."

...

Branson spends half the night awake in his bed trying to remember the events of the previous day, but somehow great pieces of the experience live in his memory only as a series of brief moments and incomplete images. He does not remember how she fell, just that one moment she was standing and the next there was a crash and Lady Sybil was lying on the ground. She was so horribly still and pale. After that he remembers the dark color of her blood against the white of Matthew Crawley's hand, the sickening way her head lolled back when he lifted her in his arms, Matthew muttering "Lord, she won't stop bleeding," in a strained voice as he held her securely against his chest in the back seat. Putting her in the car, deciding to take her to Crawley House, the long journey there; these things must have happened, but Branson has no memory of them. What he does remember is gathering Lady Sybil into his arms again as Matthew rushed ahead to open the door and wake his mother. As he lifted her from the car he heard her come to with a sharp intake of breath. He looked down and saw her grimace.

"I'm sorry m'lady," he began, but stopped short when she grabbed a handful of his jacket and turned her face into his shoulder. Branson swallowed thickly; uncomfortably aware that he had recently found himself imagining a similar scenario alone in his cottage during the dusky haze between sleep and waking. He suddenly wanted to apologize again to her (although he was not sure for what exactly), but just then Matthew called and waved from the door. He carried her inside, lowered her to the sofa and was immediately swept aside by Mrs. Crawley.

"Can I do anything to help" Branson asked anxiously.

"I expect you've done enough, thank you," answered Matthew, the biting sarcasm in his tone unmistakable. Branson was not one generally given to violence, but it was all he could do not to lay him out on the spot.

"Really, Matthew. Branson, I think you may need to fetch someone from Downton." Mrs. Crawley interjected, and then began to pat Sybil's cheek. "Come, my dear, let me have a look at your eyes." Branson watched as Sybil swallowed and began to raise her eyelids. He stood by awkwardly, wanting to see her wake, wanting her to know that he was there with her, wanting to hear his name on her lips, wanting to hear her tell him she was alright.

"Matthew," she whispered, and Branson bowed his head under the sudden weight crushing down on him.

"Yes, Sybil," Matthew replied, kneeling by her side. "I'm here. Is there something you need? Shall I send for your father?"

"No," her voice was weak but clear, "send for Mary instead. Please."

Before Matthew had time to stand, Branson was on his way out the door.

Morning light creeps through the window and Branson groans. There is no use trying to get any more sleep so he washes and dresses. He considers going to the kitchen, but brings a chair outside and settles in it to read a book instead. Someone will either bring him orders or the news that he is out of a job, and he would rather not face any more questions or accusations until then. The hours grow but no one comes, and Branson begins to wonder if he is expected to pack his bags and leave quietly. When he cannot bear to wait any longer he stands and begins to stride away from his cottage thinking that he might as well wash the car before he leaves when someone calls his name. He turns to see Lady Mary walking towards him leading her horse.

"M'lady," he ducks his head and tries not to fidget under her keen stare.

"You will be glad to hear that you still have your place at Downton, but prepare yourself for a stern talking to by Lord Grantham."

"Yes, thank you m'lady," he pauses, hoping she will continue. When she does, she sounds almost reluctant.

"Lady Sybil is a little worse for wear this morning, but that is to be expected. A day or two and she will be herself again. There was no real harm." Branson breathes a sigh and smiles, but freezes when he sees the stern look on Lady Mary's face. When she speaks again her voice is equally sharp. "Sybil is a sweet girl." Surprised at this comment, Branson struggles to think of an appropriate response, but before he does Mary continues, "Do not misinterpret or take advantage of her nature. I won't have you toying with my sister." A surge of anger rises in Branson's chest and he can't stop himself from striding forward, but before he can speak Mary raises her voice. "Do we understand each other, Branson?"

He steps back and rubs the palm of his hand down his face. He wants to tell her that it is not at all like that, that he has no evil intentions towards Sybil, that she is his friend, but the words sounds inappropriate and ridiculous even in his head.

"Yes, m'lady," is what he says instead. Lady Mary nods and begins to walk away, but after a few steps she stops and looks back.

"Lord Grantham wanted to throw you out into the night, but she fought for you. I thought you should know that."

_She fought for you._ Branson stands rooted to the spot, repeating Lady Mary's words over and over again in his mind until it is replaced with a single, startling realization; if he thought he was in trouble before, it is nothing compared to the kind trouble he is in now.


	5. Lies and Truths

Sybil wants to go looking for Branson first thing in the morning, but when she tries to get out of bed the floor plunges beneath her feet threatening to topple her over and a pain bursts into life in her head as if she has been struck anew. Reluctantly yielding to necessity she remains in bed and rests patiently until her mother and Anna come to fuss over her and ply her with a tray of food. She eats slowly and lets Anna gently wash the remaining blood out of her hair while her mother sits at her side and regards her with worried eyes for a while before speaking.

"Well, I simply cannot wait to tell your grandmother about this."

"Oh, Lord," Sybil cringes, and even though Anna pulls a hankie from her pocket to shield her face Sybil does not believe for one moment the noise that escapes from the maid is actually a sneeze.

"Language, Sybil," Cora admonishes automatically, but then pats her daughter's hand. "I think we might leave that pleasure to your father, what do you say?" Sybil cannot manage a smile, and stares unblinking at her mother.

"Are you and Papa terribly angry with me?" Her naturally low voice is reduced to a rasping whisper.

"Very angry," Cora replies, almost equally soft and low, "But it is hard to remain that way when we are so relieved that you are alright."

"I am sorry. Truly."

"I know you are, darling, but the more you lie to us the less we can trust you."

Sybil swallows back unexpected tears of shame, and eats the rest of her food in silence.

Once she is feeling strong enough to stand and can walk without the floor moving under her she convinces Anna to help her dress. She makes her way slowly down the stairs and after stopping for a minute to let the sudden throbbing pain in her head subside, walks through the doors and down the lane, intent on making good on her promise to check on Branson. As she walks she tries to think of what to say to him, but the effort makes her head hurt and her stomach swim unpleasantly so she gives up and hopes the right words will come when she sees him. If she sees him…she had better see him… Before she makes much progress she sees Mary walking towards her from the direction of the stables looking particularly preoccupied. When she closes the distance between them, Mary takes her sister's arm.

"Darling, you look dreadfully pale. You should really be resting." Sybil resists and tries to pull her arm away from Mary's.

"I have to make sure Branson is still here."

"But I've just seen him. Don't worry, Sybil. Papa hasn't had him drawn and quartered."

"I want to see him myself," Sybil replies, and part of her wonders quietly why she wants it so strongly.

"I assure you we still have a chauffeur, but he has things to be getting on with this morning and I don't think he'll have time for you. Come back to the house with me. Please." Sybil looks at her sister and can see how worried she really is. She feels she has already caused her family enough worry, so Sybil yields to Mary's arm and they begin to walk back towards Downton's great doors. After a few steps Mary tightens her grip slightly and asks what Sybil thinks is an odd question.

"Sybil, how much do you like Cousin Matthew?"

"I have always liked him. And after last night I rather think he has earned the title Perseus over Sea Monster, don't you?" She starts to laugh, and is surprised when Mary does not even smile.

"I am being serious, dear," Mary replies evenly. Sybil stops laughing and looks quietly into her sister's dark eyes until she understands.

"I do not like him as much as Edith does," she says pointedly. Mary only sighs and curls her lip dismissively in return. "Oh, Mary! I think it would be wonderful if you married Matthew, but you won't be cruel to Edith about it, will you?"

"Why should Edith matter? She's set her sights on Sir Antony anyway."

"You know why she should matter. She does matter."

"I'll never know why you were born so much sweeter than either of your sisters. No wonder he prefers you."

"But I'm sure Matthew does not prefer me. You know very well he has been smitten with you since the first time he came to Downton." Mary looks confused for a moment and Sybil notices her eyes glance distractedly back down the path before she smiles and pulls on her sister's arm. "Never mind that, dearest. Let's get you back inside before Papa notices you have left the house and summons the bloodhounds." Sybil lets herself be led up the path and thinks, not for the first time, that Mary is concealing something from her.

...

The message summoning his presence arrives for Branson not long after Lady Mary leaves him. As he enters Downton there is an immediate hush, followed by a long, low whistle. Branson looks around for the source until he sees Thomas standing in the doorway arching his eyebrows expressively and half hiding an amused smile while raising a cigarette to his lips. Branson counts to ten (Thomas drags from the cigarette), to twenty (and then lets the smoke trail from him open mouth) and is somewhere in the vicinity of thirty eight when Mr. Carson arrives.

"Follow me, Branson" he beckons, his sonorous voice sounding more than ever like the peal of doom. Branson follows. As he walks up the stairs he notices Anna and Gwen trying to give him encouraging smiles that look more like grimaces. In what seems like a moment he is standing before Lord Grantham who appears as tired and worn as Branson feels. When he speaks, however, his words are as precise and deliberate as ever.

"I had rather a long talk with Mr. Bates this morning. He informed me that he spoke with you at some length last night, and that you were sufficiently aware of your actions and their consequences. He said that there was nothing I could tell you about your misconduct and that of Lady Sybil or the importance of my daughter's safety that you do not already understand. I hold the word of Mr. Bates in the highest opinion, and have had a good amount of time to arrange my thoughts since the events of last night. For these reasons you will be spared the angry sermon that I have already administered to my daughter," he pauses to rub his brow tiredly before continuing. "Although I have been assured by multiple sources that you are blameless in this matter, I must request that in the future you will refrain from speaking to Lady Sybil about politics or any topic, for that matter, outside of your duties as a chauffeur. And if anything like this happens ever again, rest assured I will lock her doors and bar her windows so I can turn you out without references in peace."

Unable to speak, Branson bows and silently begins counting to ten as he leaves the room.

When Branson finally stops counting he is in a secluded corner outside the kitchen that the staff uses to smoke judging from the scattering of cigarette stubs crushed into the ground.

Branson sits on a crate, balancing his elbows on his knees and resting his forehead on his hands. The lack of sleep is making him feel unpleasantly drunk. His limbs are heavy and his thoughts muddled, his skin feels hot and clammy. He does not even notice Mr. Bates joining him until he sits on the crate next to his. Branson looks at the older man and manages a small smile.

"Mr. Bates, I believe I owe you thanks for what you said to Lord Grantham."

"I would not have said it if I did not think it was true."

"He said that we spoke last night. I…I don't remember what I said to you."

"You didn't have to say much. I was a soldier so I know what fear looks like, and guilt and I are old friends.

Branson stands and begins to pace with uneven, faltering steps.

"Something on your mind?"

Branson feels something inside him come loose and suddenly words are spilling out of him.

"They think they can tell us what to say and what to think and how to feel. They have no right. None."

"Easy, lad." But Branson does not want to calm down and he cannot stop the words from tumbling out in half formed sentences.

"Lady Mary, Lord Grantham warning me to keep away from Lady Sybil – they can't…What do they think I'm trying to do to her?"

"What are you trying to do?" Branson stops suddenly to turn on Mr. Bates, but when he meets his eyes he can see that it was an honest question.

"I…I talk to her. She tells me things. We discuss politics and argue and laugh. Like friends," he blusters. "I never would have taken her there," he adds unnecessarily, and feels even more like a fool. Mr. Bates regards him quietly for a few moments before speaking again, and when he does his voice is purposefully quiet.

"Lady Sybil is a beautiful girl." Branson does not dare raise his voice above a whisper when he replies.

"She is more. You know that."

"Yes, I do. But I also know that just because something is within our reach does not mean we should try and take it." Branson looks steadily at Mr. Bates, and sees his own pain reflected in the other man's face.

"What should I do?"

"Deny it. Deny it out loud to anyone who asks, and silently to yourself whenever you see her or think of her. Eventually you'll convince everyone, including yourself."

Branson knows he will never speak of this again to anyone.

"It would be a lie."

"Then lie, if not for your own sake then for hers."

The effort takes all his will, but Branson nods assent.


	6. Envy and Friendship

One evening William comes to the door of his cottage, a faint crease marking worry between the eyebrows on his usually smiling face.

"You haven't seen Lady Sybil, have you," he asks after Branson greets him, "Only she went out with the horse and cart and should have been back by now. The house is in a bit of a state. I thought if you drove into town today you might have seen her."

"No I haven't."

"Oh. Well you had better come to the house. Lord Grantham may want to drive out to look for her if she isn't back soon."

"Right," Branson reaches for his jacket. "I'll make sure the car is ready just in case."

If his movements are deliberate, Branson's thoughts are equally hurried and muddled. _Where is she? Why hadn't she let him drive her wherever she was going? Perhaps he had been too forward with her and she was avoiding him. Perhaps she didn't want him to know where she was. Why wouldn't she want him to know? Had she run away? (Could he run with her?) Did she have a lover? (No, not Lady Sybil.) Is she lost? Is she hurt? Where could he look for her? (She can't be hurt. She can't.)_ Before he can truly work himself into a proper state of agitation, he sees two figures hurrying from the stables and stops in his tracks. Although she is covered in mud he is sure that he recognizes Lady Sybil, and in another moment he realizes the other is Gwen out of her maid's uniform. He changes his path to intercept them.

"Hullo," he calls, and the two freeze like startled deer. He grins at them, and Gwen looks so scared Branson half expects her to burst into tears. Lady Sybil looks exhausted and miserable, even her voice is tired when she answers him.

"Branson, thank goodness it's you. You won't say anything about this, will you? Gwen will be in trouble if you do. Oh please, say you won't."

"I won't," he says, and wonders silently if he'd ever be able to deny her anything she asked of him. "You'd better not go in together; everyone is looking for you, Lady Sybil. Gwen should wait and sneak in later if you don't want anyone to know she's been out."

"Quite right," Lady Sybil replies, and then turns to place her hands on Gwen's shoulders. "The ordeal is nearly over, and we both survived. You were very brave today, Gwen." The two smile at each other, and then Lady Sybil gathers her mud drenched skirt in her hands and turns back. "Thank you, Branson," she says, bestowing a smile on him as well.

"M'lady," Branson gives a slight bow, and as he watches her lift her skirts above her ankles and stride towards Downton he can feel his own mouth curling upwards in a smile. Before it becomes obvious that he is staring, he looks at Gwen and sees that her face is glowing through her weariness. Suddenly, Branson feels a stab of envy towards this girl who shares secrets with Lady Sybil and earns her praise. Gwen turns and meets his eyes and he realizes that he is being ridiculous. The poor girl looks like she is about to keel over so her wraps an arm around her shoulder and leans her body against his as he leads her towards his cabin.

"Come in and sit down before you fall down, and since I have already been sworn to secrecy and am more than a little curious you can tell me what you've been up to." Gwen looks shy for a moment, but then smiles.

"Do you know about my typewriter?"

...

By all accounts, it had been a strange day. Sybil feels that every inch of her not covered with mud is drenched in sweat. Her feet went numb long ago, but her legs and arms ache with an exhausting intensity. She is happy, though. At least, she is mostly happy.

Sybil had been young when she realized that for no apparent reason other than her father's name, her life and the lives of her sisters were vastly different from the lives of the other young women who lived in her home. She knew this was the reason Anna's fingers would sometimes linger on the luxurious silk gowns and the delicate ornaments she draped on her ladies' bodies but never her own. Sybil felt pangs of guilt on these occasions, but worse were the days when she would catch O'Brian glaring at the back of her mother's head with undisguised bitterness. Those acid looks made Sybil uncomfortable and a little angry, but it was her sisters who made her truly heartsick. It wasn't just the undeniably superior beauty and charms that Mary possessed; it was the way she had of exhibiting these advantages in front of Edith that inspired her sister's corrosive jealousy, as if she encouraged it. As if she enjoyed it.

Sybil can hardly bear to acknowledge this, but she can see how jealousy is slowly turning to hatred.

For all these reasons Sybil does her best to keep envy from her heart, but all day she has felt the tug of it on her mind. It is not strong, but enough to make her think how she would like the chance to shape her own destiny by effort instead of tradition. She longs for an opportunity to prove her worth, if only to find out what she is really made of and what she could make of herself. But while Sybil has vague desires and ideas about school and politics, Gwen knows exactly what she wants to do, and that certainty is enviable indeed. Sybil looks back towards the aspiring secretary and is a little surprised to see Branson circling an arm around her shoulders and walking her to his cabin door, and even more surprised at the sudden biting pain inside her chest accompanied by a flare of anger. Almost as soon as it appears Sybil mentally scolds herself and the pain drains from her chest leaving her feeling sad and empty.

"Ridiculous," she says out loud, and comforts herself by imagining the day when she and Gwen can laugh about all this together.


	7. Hiding and Revealing

He's been carrying the pamphlets in his jacket pocket for days, waiting for a chance to give them to her, to talk to her. He wishes it didn't have to be like this; he'd rather approach her openly instead of waiting until she was alone in the back seat and then shouting over the noise of the engine, but here she is and he doesn't know when he will next have an opportunity like this. Still, it feels underhanded somehow, like he's had to engineer something that should be natural. Besides, he doesn't know if she'd even be interested in talking to him. She might think him too forward, or worse, she might not find him as fascinating as he finds her. He steals a glance of the back seat in the mirror and imagines sitting with her in the shade of a tree in the heat of a summer day talking and laughing and he knows that it is worth a try. He can't think how to begin so he starts in what sounds like the middle of a conversation, as if they are already friends.

"Will you have your own way, do you think?"

...

He knows she is going to wear the new frock tonight, and Branson is determined to see it. He would never have guessed he would find himself so interested in fashion, but after hearing the argument between Lady Sybil and the family dressmaker Branson knew he had to see it. _And if he could be completely honest with himself, he would admit that the frock does not hold his interest as much as the wearer._ Branson can't remember the last time he felt so ridiculous, but here he is sneaking along the wall of the house and peering into windows until he gets to the right one. When he finds it, he does not worry about anyone noticing because everyone is staring at Lady Sybil, and with good reason. It's sensational. She is almost scandalous and she is glowing. Her body is posed prettily so that no one can be in doubt of the frock's design, and her face is alight with triumph. Unexpectedly, she meets his eye through the glass. Before he can even think of being embarrassed at being caught she raises her eyebrows and he can practically hear the question written on her face. _"Well?"_ All he can do is smile and shake his head in amazement and not a little admiration. There is something knowing in her look, as if she expected him to be there and suspected he would approve. Branson thinks he's never met a girl so appropriately named. _And if he could be completely honest with himself, he would admit that he is lost._

...

It seems as if every inhabitant of Downton is waiting inside the door when Branson arrives with the doctor. Mr. Carson urgently ushers him in and the two men rush upstairs towards Lady Cora. The maids and Mr. Bates start to follow as well until Mrs. Hughes gestures at the small crowd to stay back before hurrying up the stairs herself. Everyone left behind seems to sway uncertainly, bewildered and uncomfortable. Branson looks around and realizes he is standing close to ladies Mary, Edith and Sybil. The three are clustered together, each looking exceptionally young and pale. Lady Mary clutches Lady Sybil's arm above the elbow as if she has no intention of ever letting go. Branson watches the two and can see each working to reign in their fear and hide emotion from their face. He is surprised to see them so quiet and still, and wonders if it is shock or a mighty effort of self control. A small sob rings out and breaks whatever spell has been holding everyone in place. Little Daisy, peering in from the next room with a face smudged in tears and soot, is pulled away downstairs between Anna and Gwen who scold her in hushed tones. Mr. Bates and the footmen start to follow, but not before Lady Edith begins to tremble. Lady Sybil casts a panicked look around and then hastily puts her arm around her sister's waist to lead her away to privacy. Lady Mary doesn't relinquish her hold on her younger sister, and Branson wonders who is going to give comfort to Lady Sybil. He remains by the door between the car and the family he serves, and waits for his next orders.

Later that evening, tired and troubled, he is making his way down to the kitchens when he turns a corner and crashes into a small body. In a glance he sees Lady Sybil and takes a hasty step backward.

"Sorry, m'lady!" He exclaims at the same moment she cries out "Oh! I am sorry," adding "Branson" a second later when she sees his face. He expects her to continue on her way but she stays put and they stand for a few moments in uncomfortable silence. Branson nervously looks over his shoulder to make sure they are alone before meeting her eyes and speaking in a low voice.

"Is everything alright, m'lady?"

"No, not everything," she answers in a broken whisper. "Mother is going to be alright, but it's been…so terrible." She rubs slowly at her forehead. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't tell you this," she continues, still rubbing at the invisible spot "I just…" Her eyes leave his and stare unfocused at the empty wall.

The sensible part of Branson's mind that sounds remarkably like Mr. Bates warns him not to, but he can't stop himself from reaching out and taking the hand at her forehead in his. Her fingers are cold and there is a slight tremor that stops when he presses her hand gently with his own. He aches to pull her close and tell her that he would take her sadness for himself if such a thing were possible, that he wishes he could change things, or at least stay at her side and comfort her. But he says nothing, and contents himself to stay hidden with her for a few moments in a lonely corner of Downton Abbey. After a short while her eyes regain their clarity and she looks back at his face.

"Thank you for your help today, Branson. I must get back." Branson holds her fingers a moment too long so that her arm is pulled behind her body as she turns, but she walks away as if she never realized her hand was in his at all.

...

The three of them have lost all sense of propriety and he can't remember the last time he's felt so happy. Gwen's elation is infectious, and he's already grinning like a fool before she throws herself into his arms and somehow the arms of Lady Sybil as well. They hold her up between them and for a perfect, sunlit moment they are all pressed together, smiling and laughing. Branson knows this is one of those moments; a moment of unbridled happiness born of unexpected joy, a moment so full of light is leaves no room for any darkness, a moment made even more beautiful because it is fleeting. He knows moments such as these are gifts meant to be enjoyed and seized. And so there, in the bright sunlight and in front of everyone, he takes Lady Sybil's hand in his. This time she does notice. She looks from their joined hands into his face, and the pain of hiding from her becomes unbearable.

"I don't suppose," he begins, but then the moment abruptly ends.


	8. Lost and Found

Discarded pieces of her life gather dust in the corners of her drawers and wardrobes. Corsets, baubles, soft shoes, silk frocks; all shoved aside to make way for less beautiful, but more practical things. Once in a while her hand will unexpectedly brush against something soft and smooth when she grabs for her uniform, or her fingers will reach up to play with earrings that she no longer wears.

Sometimes she thinks it is wicked of her, but she would be lying if she said she was not happy in this new life. Although the horrors of death and war tear at her soul, she has purpose now, and her time and efforts are meaningful in a way that she could not have expected before she was a nurse and was only the third daughter of an Earl. She knows in her heart of hearts _this_ is what she was meant for, and when the war is over she may well be lost again. But once in a while she yearns for a bit of prettiness and charm, a balm for the harshness of this new life. She allows herself a soft sigh and picks an old glove out of a drawer. "I wonder if I will ever wear these again," she silently muses. "Well, not these. I lost one during an argument with Edith, I think. Heaven knows why I held on to this one." She toys with the fingers of the glove, and thinks sadly of all the things that are lost to her now.

...

He stole something from her. It was just something small, and he didn't mean any harm.

He was driving the two youngest daughters into town. They had a busy day ahead of going in and out of shops, calling on acquaintances and planning events with their committees. On the drive there Lady Sybil suggested they each perform their errands separately and be done sooner, but in response Lady Edith wondered out loud in a voice laced with bitterness why everyone was so eager to avoid spending time with her. She did look genuinely hurt, and Lady Sybil quickly agreed that they should do everything together, adding "No one is avoiding you, Edith" in a soft voice.

"You just don't realize it, but they do," replied Lady Edith. She sounded weary, and threw in a half hearted scolding. "You shouldn't play with your gloves, no wonder you're always losing them." Branson chanced a look in the mirror. Lady Sybil seemed like she was about to disagree, but thought better of it and unceremoniously shoved her gloves into her bag without looking. Lady Edith looked mollified, but only temporarily. When they arrived in town Branson helped them out and then saw it; left behind on the seat was a single white glove. Before he knew what he was doing he grabbed it and tucked the glove away inside his jacket. A strange thrill was passing through him, conflicting confusedly with the voice rising up in his mind telling him to stop behaving like a smitten schoolboy. He would return it on the ride back, he thought, and there was no harm in him holding on to it in the meantime.

As the day grew longer Lady Edith's words with her sister grew shorter, and Sybil's patience grew thinner. By the time Branson opened the door of the car to let them back in, both were rather pink cheeked and thin lipped. They rode in stony silence for a while until dusk began to creep upon them and with it the evening chill. After a few minutes of unidentifiable rustling, Lady Edith's voice erupted shrilly from the back seat.

"Stop fidgeting! What are you doing?"

"I'm…I'm looking for my glove." Branson could hear how reluctantly Lady Sybil replied, and the sensible part of his brain told his mouth to say "I have it, m'lady. I saw that you dropped it earlier, here it is," but his mouth stayed shut. Lady Edith's, however, did not.

"I told you not to play with them! Honestly, Sybil, how do you expect to win the vote if you can't even keep a pair of gloves together."

"That is _not_ _funny_, Edith!" It was the first time Branson had ever heard Lady Sybil raise her voice in anger. _"I have it, m'lady,"_ his brain said again almost frantically, but to no avail. The dam had burst, and Branson fought to resist the urge to shrink down in his seat as his passengers had it out.

"You lost it on purpose, didn't you? You just don't want to wear them anymore."

"You sound just like Gran, scolding me over nothing! I only lost a glove, Edith!"

"First the corset, then that ridiculous frock, that horrible fiasco at the count - you say it's all about the vote, but you just want the attention, don't you? You're more like Mary every day."

"That frock is _not_ ridiculous. I love that frock! And Matthew said-"

"Oh, _Matthew said_!" And Branson did shrink a little in his seat at the anger seething in Edith's voice. "I hope you're not expecting Mary to share Matthew with you, even if he did carry you home like some damsel in distress. You loved that, didn't you?"

"_Stop_ it, Edith! Just _stop_ it!" On certain words Lady Sybil's voice cracked into a pitch that Branson wouldn't have guessed was attainable. His shoulders tensed and he half expected a projectile to hit him in the back of the head at any moment. "This isn't about me or my silly glove! You're just mad that Mathew chose Mary over you, just like-" There was suddenly a deathly silence in the back seat. Branson couldn't stop himself from looking in the mirror. Both sisters were staring out the windows on either side of the car. They remained that way, perfectly still, until they arrived at Downton. Branson stopped the car in front of the entrance, and before he had even opened his own door Lady Edith sprang out of hers and ran into the house with Lady Sybil close on her heels. Branson was left standing awkwardly by the car, struck with the realization that he had stolen Lady Sybil's glove. He never did find the right time or place to return it, and by the time war was upon them he did not want to return it. He wanted to hold on to something from Downton, to keep something of hers.

It stays close to his chest (as if her hand is pressed against his heart) except when he takes it out to hold and examine. It is something pretty and soft in a world that is anything but, and it is easy to imagine her little hand in his when her glove rests in his palm. He holds on to that piece of thread and fabric like it is a treasure, even thought he knows it is really the memories and hopes of her that are indefinably precious.

He is sorry when he loses the glove, even sorrier that a German bomb blows him halfway to hell, tearing fabric, flesh and bone.

He still reaches for it when he wakes to consciousness, as he does now. His mind suddenly becomes alert but he cannot see anything, and imagines he is standing alone in a dark room. He pictures reaching to his chest for the glove, and it takes some time for his mind to remember how to connect with his arm. When it does he realizes he is not standing in a dark room, he is lying on his back and he wishes he could forget about his arm again because now he remembers the pain as well. His other limbs come into focus and the pain is everywhere and there seem to be other hands and voices around him and he is terribly confused until he remembers the glove again. _I lost it_, he thinks, and his conscious wavers unpleasantly until another memory surfaces. _Sybil._

"Lady Sybil?" A strange voice asks somewhere over his head. "I think he's been saying 'Lady Sybil' all this time." Branson tries to see who the voice belongs to, but something must be wrong with his eyes because he can't make sense of anything. _Am I dreaming? Is this what it feels like to go mad? _

"Yes! I heard it too. Lady Sybil…goodness! Do you think he could mean Nurse Crawley?"


	9. Fear and Hope

Author's Note: While writing this chapter I realized that I have finally brought this story full circle, so I am marking this as the end of "Fear Finds Lady Sybil". Now that series 2 has begun, I'm sure my own little story has drifted into an alternate universe (as I live in the US, I don't actually know what is going on yet, but please don't tell me!), and I will probably put any further Downton Abbey inspired scribblings on hold until I see series 2 myself. For now, I'd like to thank everyone for reading and thanks again to those of you who reviewed; receiving your feedback has been a real treat. I hope you all enjoyed reading this even half as much as I enjoyed writing it. -PV

* * *

They are so many, and she knows it would be better if she did not feel for them so deeply. She tries to guard herself, but they all leave their marks on her one way or another. Five crescent shaped bruises on her forearm, ghosts of the fingers of a young soldier who grabbed her in the throes of agony, linger on her skin long after his eyes are closed. The death rattle of a colonel who looked unbearably like her father echoes in her ears as she drifts into sleep each night for months. She cannot manage to close her heart to them, and the scars accumulate steadily. She lives in dread of a day when she will be left, not with a scar, but an open wound.

...

When the matron fetches her in the middle of the night with an oil lamp and a concerned expression because a patient has asked for her by name, she tries to prepare herself. Despite her shaking hands she dresses quickly and follows the matron down corridors and staircases, listening to her hushed voice.

"A young man, fair haired, sounds like he might be Irish." Sybil pauses for a moment and steadies herself against the wall as if she has missed her step in the dark.

"How badly is he injured?" She hears her own voice rasp the question as if someone else is speaking.

"Badly, I'm afraid. If we can prevent infection he should live, but it will take him a long time to heal and we're not sure about his left arm and leg."

"I see," are all the words Sybil can muster as the matron leads her through a door. Before she even has time to think she sees him stretched out on a low cot, and there is so much blood she feels instantly sick. She is cold, not just her skin but in the pit of her stomach and inside her chest. She can feel beads of sweat forming on her arms and on her neck that instantly turn clammy. It's fear – fear freezing her from the inside out until she can't tell if she is shaking or shivering. She kneels on the ground and places her trembling hands on either side of the cot.

"Branson," she calls, and he opens his eyes slowly. To her dismay, he seems confused even after his eyes focus on her. After a moment he smiles and starts to sit up, but then cries out in pain and falls back. The sound claws at Sybil's heart and she grabs his good hand to steady him.

"Hold on to me, Branson," she says and feels his hand tighten painfully around her own.

"Oh God, you're real," he groans, and she is uncertain whether the words were meant for her or God.

She calls to him again more urgently, fearing that mind might be as injured as body.

"What was that, Branson? Can you hear me? Branson!"

"Tom."

"No, Branson, it's Lady Sybil. Sybil Crawley!" She is half frenzied and close to tears, but to her utter astonishment, Branson softly laughs.

"I know, m'lady. My name is Tom."

"Oh!" And then, because there is nothing else for it, she laughs as well.

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Tom Branson. Now stay still while I have a look at you." Before she finishes speaking, her practiced hands are already pulling aside cloth and bandage as she takes stock of his injuries with a trained eye.

"Enchanted, Sybil Crawley. You're welcome to whatever is left of me."

She laughs some more because she can't seem to stop now and reaches up to cover her face as her breath begins to come in ragged gasps. She looks back over her shoulder and nods to the matron who quietly places the lamp on a table and backs away, closing the door behind her.

"Why are you crying? Am I that badly hurt?" The light tone does not completely disguise the worry in Branson's weak voice.

"Don't be ridiculous," she splutters, wiping her cheeks with the cuff of her sleeve and managing to slow her breathing to a manageable rate.

"Sybil," he presses on, "tell me honestly, am I going to die?" Her stomach tightens into a knot, but her voice is calm when she replies.

"Certainly not. You're well looked after here. Besides, I absolutely forbid it."

"Is that so?"

"Indeed. And _I_ give the orders around here." Her fingers push stray hairs off his face and smooth his brow. "I'm going to keep my eyes on you, so don't cause any trouble."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

They both smile and lapse into silence. She sits back on her heels and he reclaims her hand with his own. When he does speak again, his voice is quiet and contemplative.

"Strange, isn't it, that I should be brought here, that you would find me."

"Not _so_ strange."

"Sybil," at the sound of his voice forming her name, she wants to run and hide. "You don't know what you've meant to me. If I don't get another chance, I want to say-"

"Tom, you've already given me a scare tonight. I'm not sure how much more I can stand." She tries to keep her tone light, but the honesty of her words is betrayed by a tremor in her voice.

"But if I don't have-"

"You _will_ have many more days, a whole lifetime full."

"Sybil, I love you."

She looks into his eyes, searching for deception or confusion. She finds none, only those words looking back at her, desperate to be heard. She feels small like a speck of dust floating in sunlight, and yet there are whole worlds moving inside her. A tear drops down her cheek and falls onto his face. She wants to say that she has missed him so terribly, that ever since he left a fear for him has sat like a weight on her chest, that she is young and terrified but will do all she can to make him well and whole again. She wants him to know that she would give anything to be able to hold him now, and she aches to feel his arms around her, but no words come. As she watches, his expression turns to dismay at her silence.

"I know it is too much to hope," he begins in a strained voice, but she reaches down to wipe away her tear that has pooled on his cheek, and replaces it with a soft kiss.

"No, not too much," she whispers before gently catching his lips with her own. As she begins to pull away he reaches up and tangles his hand in her hair, pulling her back for another kiss, a deeper kiss, this one somehow urgent and hungry. He tastes of salt, of sweat and blood, and she spends her last clear thoughts wondering what she tastes like to him until she becomes breathless and dizzy. Even though her lungs burn, she doesn't pull away until he releases her. When he does, she takes an undignified gulp of air and sits back. She looks down at him, and his eyes shine back at her just as they did before he left. It feels a lifetime ago, but they look the same; like a clear sky, like freedom, like hope. Her heart kindles, and Sybil Crawley knows she is a woman in love.


End file.
